It’s a fever that almost kills, A burn that’s always blistered. A wound that never heals But always sits and festers. It’s a stab into my thoughts A knife that always twists It’s lips and bones that always split Under your open fist. Its figurative whips across my back And dreams that always wilt. It’s a pure soul that always sins, And fades away with guilt. This broken and endless hell Are my choices now taken shape. It’s the road that I must travel, Dusted with weeds and hate. And this… It’s a fever that almost kills, A burn that’s always blistered. You’re a wound that never heals, But always sits and festers…
Posted on: Thu, 06 Jun 2013 12:19:55 +0000
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